


Wishing Well

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [31]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Just Married, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: But this is the beginning of things: small and very clear.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alyslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyslee/gifts).



> Prompt fic for Alyslee: "My comment fic, may I ask for anything sweet and tender between Athos and Milady /Anne? Thanks!"
> 
> (sorry about the wait)

It is a tiny spring, barely a trickle of water from a cleft in the rock, spilling to a lopsided bowl lined with vivid moss that in turn spills out into a stream that will broaden into a slow and dozy river. But this is the beginning of things: small and very clear. Fish smaller than a finger, bright silver, dart through the water, through the ripples and the stillness.

Olivier - Athos to those who love him - reins in his great black horse and dismounts cautiously, mindful of his boots on the moss. Anne, his - his _wife,_ such a new word, made new for him - lets him put his hands on her waist, trusts him to lift her down from her gentle grey mare, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders and a rosy blush staining her cheeks. Her long skirts settle about her and she looks at him curiously.  

“It is an old custom,” Athos says a little gruffly. “The people of Pinon come here and...” His throat closes up. “You must think us very superstitious.”

Anne stops him with a finger to his lips, then she trails it to his chin and tilts his head that she might kiss him. Her lips still taste of spice from the wedding feast, they are as warm as peaches in the sun. Athos sighs into her.

“What is the custom?” she asks finally.

“At a turning point in our lives, like a marriage or a birth, one comes here and -” He shuffles in a pocket, produces a heavy gold coin wrought with Henry's regal visage, and tosses it in the little pool, where it parts the water and sinks, half-hidden, into the moss with the older sacrifices.

It is customary to wish for children, he knows. His wife's green eyes are like the spring: clear, but in their depths are secrets, poems, mysteries. He wants to fall and dwell in them forever… _Let me know, even as I am known,_ he wishes silently.

Anne steps up beside him, and brushes a fallen lock of inky hair behind her ear. She eyes the pool cautiously, as if something in it might rise up and bite her. Finally she crouches and holds a bead as blue as her favourite flower just above the water and lets it fall. He thinks she mouths the word _Trust._

When she straightens she laughs high-pitched, a little reckless, a little relieved, and her shoulders sag, eased of some burden.

They hold each other after, each shaking as if from great effort, and breathe each other in, they drink each other. It is only when the shadows of night draw over them that they break apart, reluctantly, to return to the ways of the outer world.

Their wishes stay behind them, hidden in the water and the moss.


End file.
